


Living In Flames

by DoesItSaySassOnMyUniform



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Begins after the Time War, But he's still the Doctor, Death happens, Donna is sassy, Gen, He is a serial killer, Killing through time and space, Martha is way too smart for her own good, PTSD, Rose is oblivious, Serial Killer Doctor, So much angst, Tbh I don't know how I came up with this, The Doctor gets a bit creepy, Timey Wimey Trouble, Violence, Work In Progress, okay very creepy, until she's not, yes that's right - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:04:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5310497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoesItSaySassOnMyUniform/pseuds/DoesItSaySassOnMyUniform
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Time War is over, but for the Doctor, it never ends. Rising from the ashes of his people, he is a different man. For the first time in his long life, he has a craving. One that can't be satisfied by anything else. But this isn't him is it? After all, his name is Doctor. <br/>A Healer. <br/>But now he's anything but. <br/> A Serial Killer AU<br/>Begins with Nine, and goes through to Eleven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1: Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story was first posted on FF.Net when I first started it a year or so ago. However, I've begun to rewrite it now that i've finished high school.   
> In a way, it does follow some episode plots, however changed due to the fact that the Doctor's killing people. Canon characters do appear though. However the main, over arching plot line is original and directly impacted by the Doctor's choices.   
> Enjoy?

War. Anger. Hate. Death. So much death, so much blood. It surrounded him, a hazy mist of emotions, of action, horrific and all consuming. His world was burning, he was burning. He could feel it, creeping through his veins, itching under his skin. Walking through the dead, flames licking at his sides, he picked up his pace, striding towards the TARDIS. The burning became more intense, spreading to his mind, his skin on fire. He was almost there.

A hand gripped his leg, the feeling of talon like fingers dug into his skin, reaching through his seared and tattered pants. They felt like ice on his burning skin. Looking down, he gazed into the sorrowful eyes of what had to be one of the few survivors. He bent down, eyes never breaking contact, hands reaching for his neck, and snapped, watching the eyes become glass. Better that than a slow death from fire, or blood loss. Judging from the wound on the man's torso, it was amazing he was even still alive. It had been right to end his suffering, merciful. He stiffened as he grew hotter, the pain becoming too much. He had to hurry.

Kicking the body away, he continued, and eventually, made it, gasping his way into the console room. The fire in his blood turned lethal, and he screamed, throwing his head back, collapsing onto his knees, golden light seeping out of every pore.

He would be a new man, he would rip his way into the world, alone. He would be a new man. A broken man.

But he would go screaming.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor meets his new self.

He stared at his reflection, and an unfamiliar face stared back. Icy blue eyes, short hair... he turned his head. Big ears. Unfamiliar and new, he moved his jaw, and scrunched his face. Different. He knew from experience that he'd get used to it, he always did, but it would be strange for a while. To be completely different, a new man, it was a peculiar thing. Looking closer in the mirror, he could see the burden the war had caused, his eyes old and scarred in this new, blemish free body. Suddenly, he felt sick, and he pushed away from the mirror in distaste. Why should he be alive, why should he have no scars, nothing to show for the pain he had gone through, to show the horrors he had committed. Nothing to warn others what he was capable of.

_Others._

Of course, it didn't matter now. There were no others. He was alone. Truly, desperately alone for the first time in his life. He could feel the emptiness, the hole in his mind where his people once sang... a light in the dark, or at times, darkness in the light...

...and it was his fault. He did it. He'd stopped the war. It'd only taken his people. His home. Countless lives. He was a monster. 

He bit back a broken sob. No. He'd done what he had to, to keep the universe safe. That was his burden. He could get through this. He would get through this, if it was the last thing he did. He had to, as the last Time Lord. Who else would keep order? With the Time Lords gone, who knew what would happen.

Rubbing his eyes, he walked over to the shower, turned it on, and jumped in, not bothering to take off his shredded and burnt clothes. The water was hot, and stuck the clothes to him, turning the bits of skin he could see through the numerous rips red. It made him feel, feel something other than the numbness he felt slowly consuming him. Time Lords were naturally cool in temperature, well, cooler than most humanoid species, and the water was painfully raising his body temperature. The clothes became soaked, and weighed him down, dragging his shoulders, the water turning red as blood washed out of them. He felt trapped. Confined. It made his skin crawl.

Soon, his fingers began clawing at his clothes, ripping them apart and tearing them off. His shirt was last, and when it clung to his skin, they became panicked. He couldn't breathe, and it felt like the material was suffocating him. His nails dug in, and pulling hard, the shirt tore off over his head, and he threw it out of the shower, knowing that it wouldn't be there when he got out. He could breathe. 

Leaning against the tiled wall, he slid down, his head on his knees, and let the spray wash over him, cleansing his skin of the no longer present blood stained clothes. There, under the water, he couldn't help it, and try as he might, tears leaked out of his eyes, and he closed them, trying desperately to stem the flow. It failed, and they tracked down his skin, joining the steaming water. A small noise left his throat, and he shuddered, his shoulders shaking. He would allow this. This one moment, but after that... He felt the TARDIS' hum in his mind, and it was soft, gentle, vainly trying to fill the vast void his people left. He wasn't alone. Not entirely. So long as she was with him, two relics from his- their lost home.

It was there, in the shower, under the water that he broke down the sound of rushing water doing little to mask his grief. Only once, he told himself, curled on the tiled floor. Only once

~

Sometime later, he stood in his wardrobe room, rack upon rack of clothing surrounding him. He looked around, sometimes taking something off the rack and considering it, before putting it back. Suits didn't work, he'd done that before. People noticed suits, they attracted attention, attention he didn't want. Yet, he couldn't be too casual. People noticed that too. Walking around, feeling fabrics, he'd come to the conclusion that this body didn't like some materials anyway. Suits felt itchy and wrong on his new skin. Jeans were too tight, and from his past experience when they were first invented, not easy to run in.

Fingers running through the clothes as he walked past, he stopped when he felt leather. Pulling it out, he looked at the item more closely. Worn and weathered, tough to provide some protection ( from what he had no idea, but he felt the need) and was black, a perfect, non-attention drawing colour. He smiled for the first time in what felt like, and probably was, years. He liked this jacket. Grabbing a dark shirt from a nearby rack, he pulled it on, not caring what it looked like. It felt soft, and it soothed his raw skin. Next he grabbed pants, long and slightly professional looking, just enough to add a bit of authority to his figure. He supposed the hair helped too. 

Slipping on the jacket felt right, the leather seeming like armour, making him feel secure. He could handle this. Glancing in the mirror, he looked whole. Nothing like the empty mess he was inside. Still, he could do this. He was a new man, and if he pretended long enough, acted long enough, one day he would be better.

_You'll never be better. You don't deserve it._

He turned away from the mirror, and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him, locking the thought inside, back with the mirror. He made his way to the console room, eyeing his bare feet as the peeked out from under his pants. He'd forgotten shoes, but it didn't matter. He wouldn't be leaving the TARDIS for a long time. Not if he could help it. Besides, the TARDIS had suffered damage in the war. Damage he had never had time to fix. Now he had all the time in the world.

~

He felt restless. It had been a few weeks since his regeneration, and in that time, he had done some much needed maintenance around his ship... repeatedly. He needed to go outside, get some air. He was made to run, made to travel, and staying inside the TARDIS was starting to get to him, as vast as it was. But the thought of going out there, seeing the pain and suffering him and his people had inflicted upon countless planets... it was unbearable. Worse, the thought of seeing people happy and carefree, with their families, their people... it hurt. As wrong as it was to feel pain at others happiness, he couldn't help it. He'd done everything to try and get rid of the feeling, even slept once. But that hadn't ended well. Despite their absence, his people still managed to haunt him, and it bled into his dreams. Thankfully Time Lords needed little sleep, once a week or so. Three weeks without sleep wasn't so hard, even though his eyes tried to close on occasion. Four weeks inside... he had to get out.

Setting the coordinates for a random market place (he had loved shopping once hadn't he?), he made his way to his wardrobe to get shoes. After choosing a pair of sturdy looking black shoes, he walked back. In what felt like the blink of an eye, he was in front of the door. He reached for the handle, and hesitated. Did he really want to do this? Go out there, into the real world. With noise, and people, and happiness...

_...and distraction._

Distraction. That was exactly what he needed. Something he'd run out of on the TARDIS. Besides, he needed some more parts for the TARDIS, and hopefully, this market would have them.

Making his decision, he opened the door, and slipped outside, his eyes automatically squinting as the sunlight burned his eyes. Sunlight. It had been so long. Feeling the warmth on his face, he stepped away from the door, and closed it behind him, locking the door in the process. It was so warm, it felt so nice, to feel the natural light on his skin.

Looking around, he took in his surroundings. The TARDIS had materialised at the back of an alleyway, the sun bright above them. It must've been early in the day. He could hear the hustle and bustle of a market nearby, and he moved towards it, taking in the fresh air. He entered the street, and was momentarily stunned by the colour that greeted him.

Hues of red and white, blues and greens and every colour imaginable. Shops with clothes, merchants selling art, children's toys, exotic food, and everything one could possibly need seemed to stretch out before him. People of all kinds of species wandered from shop to shop, children running around. Laughter and speech filled his ears, and the combination was overwhelming.

His breathing became difficult. Didn't he used to enjoy this? Love seeing the people living their lives? A loud bang came from something, a toy or other, he couldn't tell, and he jumped back, flinching. It was so loud. So crowded.

A screech of childish joy pierced the air, and his breathing worsened. Images of war and death, voices crying, pleading for mercy, begging for life, screams filling his head. He had to get out of there. He had to run, get back to the TARDIS...but his lungs were straining to get the air they needed, and he was feeling faint. What was wrong with him? He needed to leave, needed to get out.  
He went to turn and-

“Are you okay sir?” A hand touched his shoulder, and on instinct, he reached around, and in an instant, snapped the man's neck.

He watched in horror as his mind cleared, as though the haze had travelled to the man, the man whose eyes were now cloudy, as the body fell to the ground.

He ran, back to the alley, back to the TARDIS, the image of the man he had killed, the innocent man, seared into his memory. Clawing the door open, he fell inside, leaning against the door, gasping for air. What had he done? What was wrong with him? Killing an innocent man who was only trying to help him? He'd never done that before. Never dreamed he would... but now, now he had... he felt better.

He bolted upright. No. He didn't. He didn't feel better. He felt like a monster, now even more so than before. Everything was the same, everything but...  
_The restless feeling was gone._

The thought hit him like a train, and his stomach flipped. He did feel better. The feeling he'd had for about two weeks now had vanished, and even as his hands trembled, he felt steady. More steady than he had since his regeneration. The feel of the man's neck as it snapped, the sharp twist of his hands... it felt natural. Right...but that meant...  
_He liked it._  
He threw up, the vile liquid burning his throat and nose, and he knew he would have to clean the mess up later, but he didn't care.  
_What was wrong with him?_


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fixed points are not good.

He hadn't left the TARDIS for almost a month. He hadn't even tried, too afraid of what he might do if he did. He had killed a man. An innocent. After it happened, he'd stood in the bathroom for hours, rubbing his hands past raw, trying to get rid of the taint they now possessed. He only stopped when the TARDIS turned off the water off, and mentally screeched at him until the pressure made him pass out. He'd woken up in his bed, feeling rested, and all he could think of was that he didn't deserve it.

Thus began his self-imposed exile, staying in the TARDIS, and ignoring the outside world. He tried to pretend nothing had happened, that he hadn't gone outside because he didn't want to, that the TARDIS really needed these repairs, that that book really needed reading, that his garden room really needed tending. But every time he closed his eyes, or looked at his hands, or he dropped a tool and it made a 'clang' when it hit the floor, he saw him. The man he killed, and everything, the fear, the panic, the closed throat, the horror... the relief. That feeling of exhilaration as the adrenaline burned through his veins. It all came back. Then he'd feel sick again, and the walls would close in, and he'd find himself wishing he'd just died in the war. Because that would be so easy. So easy compared to this turbulent storm of emotions he was facing.

What was wrong with him? He, who had stood, when so many had fallen. Was this it? Was he falling? It certainly felt like it. Falling down deeper and deeper until he would never be able to get back up. Was this what war did? Made a person so dependent on fear and death that killing someone, an innocent no less, made him feel better? Or was he always like this?

He dropped the book he was reading, pages long forgotten, and stood, unsure of what else to do. Was he always like this? Had he had this urge, this subconscious longing to kill since his first form? Because that's what it was. A longing. He had felt it building the past week. This desire to feel that peace again, that steadiness. He wanted it, craved it so badly... It terrified him.

He scratched his neck, and pulled at his shirt. He felt so hot, his skin prickly. Turning, he could've sworn he saw the walls moving in closer in his peripheral vision. He had to get out. This was insane. He was built to travel, to run, and here he was, hiding in his ship, all because he was afraid of himself? No. He wouldn't do that. He wouldn’t trap himself like this. It was an urge, a craving, that's all it was. Like a sudden desire for chips, or chocolate. He could control that. He just had to stay away from crowds, and loud noises. Then he was safe.

With that thought, he ran towards the console room, his coat billowing around him. He'd been trapped enough in the war, and he refused to feel it any more than he already had. He wasn't afraid.

~

He was afraid. He was very afraid. He'd made a mistake. He'd set coordinates for a nice, peaceful planet. Of course, with his luck, that wasn't where he'd landed. No crowds, he'd said, no noise, he'd said. Where does he land? The assassination of JFK. Clearly, someone had a death wish, and now, now he was surrounded by people, screaming in happiness, joy at seeing their precious president, unaware of the killer in their midst. Two killers- he corrected himself. There was him, seemingly normal, seemingly harmless, and the other one. The one that was about to kill one of the most influential people of the century. He couldn't be here, this was a fixed point, and if he did anything, everything he'd fought to protect would fail. He had to leave, because when that shot went off, it would be chaos, and he was barely coping as it was. He had to run, run like the mad man he was. And never come ba-

He heard it before he saw it, his ears more sensitive than the humans, even through the dense noise. War had trained him to recognise the sound of a weapon, feel the subtle shift of the air as it was displaced. He turned to leave, before the others noticed, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the president fall, blood everywhere. He moved faster, hoping that he could leave, run while the people hadn't quite realised what had happened.

He managed two steps before the screaming, this time of panic, started. Bodies moved against him, and he almost fell to the ground as a horde of humans overwhelmed him.

_It would be so simple. So easy, just a flick of the wrist, and they'd fall. People would think they got trampled..._

He shot up, pushing past the crowd, shoving, hitting, at one point he almost bit the hand of a man who had blocked his path between him and the alleyway he had in his sight. He needed to calm down, to get away from people. He could hide there while the panicked people left, and then he could get in his TARDIS and leave. He didn't want to hurt anyone. Never again. He'd damaged enough in this world, this universe. He didn’t need to add to the body count, it was already in the billions. No, not again. He was so close too, a few metres at most. He could make it, he really could.

_So easy._

He almost made it.

~

He didn't throw up this time. He wanted to, wanted to feel that disgust so badly, so much... but it never came. Instead, he felt more alive than he had since the war. He felt his hearts beating, his blood pumping through his veins, the very essence of time around him. The restlessness was gone, in its place, euphoria, freedom. He felt normal, like he had before the war, and really, that should have disgusted him. Should have terrified him to his very core, but it didn't.

_You like it._

He didn't scrub his hands, instead, he showered, washed the stench of fear and humanity that covered him. He reeked of the stuff, and it clung to him, whispering hints of his past deeds, and he couldn't have that. So he showered, he ate, he fixed the navigator on the TARDIS console, because clearly something went wrong for him to end up there, at a fixed point, when he wanted peace and relaxation. It was when he went to sleep, however, that it all came back. He hadn't sleep for weeks, pushing it, even for a Time Lord.

The event bled into his dreams, and he saw himself kill over and over, felt the rush, the fear around him. Then he'd been on fire, the burn in his veins, and he saw his home burning, searing itself into his memory. He saw that man, at the market, felt the crack of his neck in his hands. So much death, and oh it burned. Burned so bright, he felt dirty, impure, unworthy of living, yet unworthy of the death he had granted others. He wanted to curl up in a ball, he wanted to have never existed. But he didn't deserve it. He saw his friends. Sarah Jane, Ace, Romana... What would they think if they knew of his deeds? Of what he was... he knew. He knew what they would think, what they would do, because it was what he would've done, what he had done at their side, to countless foes. They would end him.

_You're a monster..._

He woke up shaking, felt his very being tremble and tasted the salty and hot tears streaming down his face. He was a monster. What gave him the right to live, and all those countless, unforgettable numbers to not?

_Nothing._


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Doctor is still the Doctor

He couldn't stay inside this time. He'd thought he didn't feel guilt. Didn't feel remorse after the last time. He was wrong, because he felt it now. Felt his hands twist and shake and cling to his pants or jacket, hoping for some semblance of 'steady' to grace them. The walls closed in tenfold, and he couldn't use the shower for long before he felt too trapped to function, despite knowing that logically, the shower was the same size it had always been. He couldn't stay inside, no matter how big the TARDIS really was.

So he didn't.

He went to planets, numerous and varied, he went to asteroids, bleak and abandoned, he even stared out from the TARDIS doors into a forming star, though he had to stop as familiar flashes of fire began to burn into his eyes. The only thing they had in common, was that they were all deserted. With no possible victim, how could he be the killer? Yet, the restlessness returned, and worse. He was lonely. He wanted, needed a friend. Oh how he craved the days when he had a hand to hold, a person to show the wonders of the universe. He missed it. Missed the awe on their faces, the questions, the simple feeling of having another person nearby. A companion. He wanted a companion.

_Not that you deserve it._

He didn't deserve it. He could barely cope with being around people for a short time. What would it be like if he had someone nearby constantly? He’d hurt them, burn them with his very presence and scar them forever. He couldn't do it. He wouldn't do it. Not if it was the last good thing he ever did. Gone was his old life. It had run away with hopeless abandon, taking his spirit with it, fearing what was to come the moment he had stepped foot on that planet. He was not a good man, by any sense of the word. But bad men could still do good deeds, if the motivation was right, and guilt was the surest he had ever known. He would not have a companion. He would not taint them, bring them into his world, let them experience this fear and pain he felt every second of every long, aching day.

 

It was as he was setting the coordinates for a nice, deserted tropical planet that the TARDIS shook, and he grabbed onto the console to stop himself from falling. What was happening? Checking the monitors as line upon line of information crossed the screen, he cursed. Something had happened, happened to the TARDIS. She was sending him to the worst possible place for him, the place he had made his last mistake. He couldn't go back.

_But you want to._

 

Earth.

~  
He practically fell out of the TARDIS, arms flailing as the door he had crashed into opened, seemingly of its own accord. Hitting the ground, he rolled, arms pulling in and legs folding as he dragged himself into a crouch. Murder apparently wasn't the only instinct he had kept from war. Head lifting up, he surveyed his surroundings, hearing the faint close of the door behind him. Cobblestone met his gaze, and he frowned. He was in a populated area then. That was bad. Getting up and glancing back at his dangerously mutinous ship, he sighed. Obviously, she wanted him here for some unknown reason, and clearly, she wasn't afraid he would kill someone. A slightly smug humming in the back of his subconscious told him as much. Unfortunately for him, he didn't share that faith. Sighing again, he moved away from the ship. Maybe if he left for a while and came back, she'd be satisfied. Until then, he just had to keep away from crowds and he should be fine.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he looked around, before stepping forward. Cobblestone. He was in an alley too, filled with garbage and his nose scrunched as the smell finally wafted its way into his senses. Cringing, he took a deeper breath, ignoring the overwhelming stench of waste, and focusing instead on the underlying smells. Smoke, lots of it. Industrial area. Most likely late eighteen hundreds, maybe early nineteen. Taking another breath, he could detect the faint aroma of perfume. He scrunched his nose again. So many different types, the people must have been drowning in it.

Walking towards the entrance to the alley, he faltered. He could hear voices, the sounds trickling into his ears. Not another crowd. Fighting the temptation to run back and beg the TARDIS to let him in, he journeyed closer, determined to see just where he was that his ship was so insistent on him seeing. He was closer now, he could feel the sun on his face, and he stood, momentarily struck by the warmth on his face. It felt so nice, so peaceful.

A loud shout made him jump, and he shook his head, as though getting rid of any thoughts of peace.  
He was not here for peace. Not here for anything at all in his opinion. The TARDIS was just meddling, nothing to worry about.

_She always has a reason._

Sighing, he journeyed closer to the end of the alley, sticking close to the wall in case of... well he didn't know really, but the rough feel of the stone beneath his hand kept him more grounded than he'd felt in a while. As he drew closer, the noise grew louder, fractions of conversations entered his ears, all in one huge flurry of distraction.

“Largest ship they say...”

He froze. It couldn't be.

“It's huge, I wonder how they...”

No, it wouldn't. Fixed point in time.

“Wish I could go...”

Honestly, JFK was one thing, but surely she wouldn't have brought him here.

“Lap of luxury that is...”

The words slowly blurred together as he began to panic, the wall his only support.

“Livin' like kings...”

He finally moved his feet closer, eyes widening as he exited the alley. A wave of sea air hit him, and he was surprised he hadn't smelt the salt earlier.

“What’d they call it again?”

The Titanic.

Oh he was going to kill his ship. He wanted to turn in her direction, to threaten a well-timed mechanical failure should she not let him in, but he couldn't move. The Titanic. She'd brought him to the Titanic. Was she insane?

A person bumped him as they walked past and he stumbled, but for once he didn't flinch, the shock too overwhelming. The Titanic. The largest ship of its time. The one doomed to sink into the icy depths of the ocean...

He shuddered, before stepping back. He shouldn't be here. It was a fixed point. First rule of time travel, don't go to fixed points. In fact, don't even go near them. Don't even think about going to a fixed point. Even the slightest change could ruin everything. Don't, under any circumstances, go to fixed points.

_Since when have you let that stop you?_

He shook his head. JFK had been a mistake. He hadn't meant to go there and then it had been too late. It wasn't too late now. He could leave. Easily in fact. The ship hadn't even been boarded. By the looks of it, not until tomorrow, given how the crew were still cleaning and loading on items. They would never do that with passengers waiting. He could leave.

He glanced at the crowd, children running around, parents laughing, couples leaning against one another as they appraised the ship. All these people. People like them... they would die on that ship.

_You've killed more..._

He felt weak, and stumbled back, hand reaching out for the wall.

“Sir are you alright?”

He looked up, to see a man in a suit, the edges frayed and the elbows worn in. He had a kind smile, and a bow tie around his neck. Somehow, looking at this man, he felt a sense calm wash over him, as though everything was going to be okay. He must've looked confused, because the man spoke again.

“Sir, are you well? My name is Doctor John Jacobson. Do you need help?” The man, this Doctor, held out his hand, as though asking permission. Hadn't he once called himself a Doctor? The word seemed so foreign now.

He cleared his throat, the words burning his tongue as he forced them out.

“I'm fine.” He forced a weak smile. Looking behind the man, this doctor, he saw what had to be his family. Two small children, and a woman, dressed nicely, despite the fraying ends.

“Sir are you certain? You look quite out of sorts.”

He nodded, “yes, fine thank you.” His voice felt strange, strangled almost. He recalled with a start that it had been a long time since he had used it.

The man however, hesitated. “If you insist. If you should find yourself in need of assistance, my family and I will be staying in the Inn down the way. We leave with the ship tomorrow, but until then you are more than welcome to ask for help. Just ask for the Doctor. The Inn keeper will direct you to our room”

The man turned to leave, to join his family and continue to what he assumed to be their Inn.

“Why?”

It took him a moment to realise he'd spoken, his voice echoing, surprisingly clear in the loud street. The man looked surprised, but turned back nonetheless, his voice soft.

“I am a Doctor Sir. Helping people is what I do.”

 

And then he was gone, taking his calm with him.

~  
He sat, in his alley, alone. The wall behind him hard, unrelenting. Images of that man flashed before his eyes. He had been so kind, so kind to a stranger... to him. He, who had committed a thousand sins. For no other reason than the act itself. Kindness, for kindness sake was so rare in this world. To think, he used to possess so much of it. Yes, his kindness was gone, replaced by bitterness and rage and a restlessness that plagued his very soul every day. But that man, he wore his kindness as a badge, an honour. An aura that screamed 'trust me' in every possible way. That man was a blessing, one he longed to be around forever. To feel that calm no matter his real circumstance. That man, Doctor John Jacobson. He was a gift.

_And he's going to die._

He hit his head against the wall, for what was probably the hundredth time, as though the force could get rid of unwanted thoughts. That man was going to die, he was certain of it. He'd seen their clothes. There was no way they were rich, and there was no way they could afford first class. Most likely they would be locked in once the panic began, trapped and unable to escape the icy cold that would consume them. They would die. And there was nothing he could do to stop it, it was a fixed point after all.

_That never stopped you before._

There it was again. The thought that had been plaguing him since his encounter with that man. How, how could he let that man, and his kindness, leave this world? All for the sake of a fixed point. Surely, this man wouldn't ruin the world. If anything, he would make it better, even if that was just for a few individuals. And his family... they reminded him of his, oh so painfully. Rassilon he missed them. His granddaughter especially. But they were all gone now. He was the last of his kind, the last Time lord. He didn't feel lordly now. He felt alone. And that man, that doctor had shown him kindness. He did not deserve to die. None of them did. But surely, one doctor and his family couldn't ruin the world. Surely, despite all it had taken, Time could give him this.

He was up in a flash, the leather jacket flaring behind him, as he ran to the inn, to the doctor. The sun was setting now, and the street was emptying. They would leave early. Somehow, he had to convince them to stay. To not get on that ship, no matter the consequences. He had to save them. After all the death he had seen, all the death he had caused, he had to save someone, anyone.

And so he ran.

~

He knocked, the sound echoing in his bones, pounding along to the beat of his twin hearts. The Inn Keeper had been surprised, to see a man, frantic, run into the building, demanding to see the doctor. They had tutted, calling him rude, before sending him on his way, muttering about 'strays' and 'bleeding hearts'. He hadn't cared. He'd made his way to the room, number 5, and knocked. And now he waited.

The door opened, a small face appearing. The little girl from before. Her eyes were wide with curiosity, innocent. Her mouth curled and she giggled, light and airy, and his hearts lightened. He must've looked a mess, clothes out of order, breathing heavy despite his bypass system. It had been awhile since he'd been this active. Still, he bent down to her level, meeting her gaze. She stared back, unafraid. Trusting in a way that only the very young can. Any doubts he had had about his decision vanished. He was very glad he had made this trip, rules of Time be damned.

“Hello. I'm looking for the doctor?” His voice was soft. Softer than it had been in aeons. The irony of the question had not been lost on him.

The girl smiled wider, a feat he would've previously thought impossible. She didn't turn, didn't lower her gaze at all. He could respect that. Here he was, a stranger they had met on the street, dressed in strange clothing, and here she was, meeting his gaze as though she had all the power a four year old could possess. The very young were very brave.

“Daddy.”

It was one word, but the effect was instantaneous. He heard a shuffling behind the door, and he was surprised it hadn't happened sooner. Did humans really let their children answer the door to unexpected visitors?

_Unless you weren't unexpected._

 

The door opened wider, and the man from before, John, came into view, before the door was opened completely, and he was given a full view of the modest room. The other child, the son, sat in the middle, a toy abandoned due to his presence. A stranger, much more interesting than an old toy. The woman stood at the back, watching carefully. She, was clearly less trusting than her husband. Still, she seemed open, friendly. Just more reserved. He was grateful. It would be easier to convince them to stay.

“I thought you would come. How can I help you sir?”

The question threw him off guard, and he almost laughed. What had he expected? The Spanish inquisition? Still, he stumbled over his words, and all that came out were garbled sounds. He looked down, slightly embarrassed. He couldn't even talk in front of this man, with his kindness. He remembered lives where he never shut up, and now, he couldn't even answer a simple question.

John, however, was patient, and waited for him to try again, his hand resting on his daughters head. She giggled again, and the laugh grounded him. He had no clue what to say, not one inkling on what lie to spin, what angle to approach to stop them from getting on that ship of death. So he didn't.

“Don't get on the ship.”

John recoiled slightly, confusion entering his expression. “Pardon?”

He tried again, and was ashamed that his voice cracked. The disuse, he told himself.

“Don't get on the Titanic. Please.”

The wife walked forward, and stood beside her husband. “Why ever not? It's the opportunity of a life time.”

He sighed. “I know you don't know me, but please, just trust me. That ship is bad news. Call it a feeling, but I don't want to see you and your family hurt.”

John stood up straighter, before turning to his wife. “Emily, take Madison back inside. Robert looks lonely. I'll be inside in a moment.”

Emily nodded, before ushering the daughter back inside. He heard the laughter of the little girl, and assumed they were playing. John stepped forward, and closed the door, and he moved back with him, walking back until he touched the wall of the corridor behind him.

“What do you know sir?” John asked, his voice quiet.

“I can't say.” He really couldn't. It was bad enough he was here in the first place. He couldn’t go into more detail. He shouldn't.

“Sir, this is my family. If they're in danger, I should know.” John stepped forward, inching closer to him, yet he still felt nothing other than that strange sense of calm.

He sighed, and his shoulders dropped. “The ship, the Titanic, in a few days’ time, will hit an iceberg, and sink into the ocean. There'll be nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do, and if you get on that ship, you will die.”

John stumbled back, stunned. “How do you know such things?”

He smiled bitterly. “Call it a curse, call it witch craft or call it a lie. Just... Please don't get on that ship.”

The man looked wary.

“Please.”

There must've been something in his eyes, or his tone, or maybe even his body language, but John nodded.

“I'll arrange to get called away. We can always leave another time,” the man reached forward, his hand out expectantly. He gently took it, as though it could explode.

“Thank you,” the man said.

“Thank you,” he replied back, before letting go and turning away, his hearts light but mind heavy. What had he done? This man, this man and his family, would live. Four more people alive in the world that hadn't been before. Who knew what would happen.

“Why?”

The word came out of nowhere, and he turned, almost to the end of the hall. John stood there, shoulders dropped but head high, eyes full of curiosity, like his daughter.

“Why what?”

“Why save us? Out of all the people going on that ship... why save us? I am just a country doctor. I am nothing special in the eyes of god. Why me?” John's voice was steady. Calm in a way he could never reach.

He looked him in the eyes, eyes so much like the little girl's... Maddison’s that he was once again reminded of why he told them.

“You were kind. The world needs kindness.”

And then he was gone, walking so fast John was sure he was running away, away from what, he was unsure. He was grateful, as he walked back into their room, and saw his family, his wife's questioning eyes. That man had been a gift. A blessing. He stopped, wondering why he had never thought to ask his name...

 

The next day, there was one family missing from the manifesto. A Dr. John Jacobson had been called away suddenly, on family business.

~ 

That night, he returned to his ship, and the door opened, the console room flooded with warm light. He had taken a chance, one he should regret, should find shameful that he had changed a fixed point, however minutely. But among his long list of regrets and past shames, this was not one of them. He had saved that man, and his family. His kindness. The world was now slightly kinder, if only by one person. He had done a good deed, and it was not the last thing he would do. He may not be a good man, but he could still do good deeds.

It was as he was going to bed, for what had to be the first time in weeks, that he realised that that entire time, he hadn't had the urge to... the restlessness hadn't become unbearable. He had gone out, in public, and hadn’t killed anyone. In fact, he had saved someone. Four people in fact. Maybe he wouldn't have to lock himself up for all eternity after all.

It was with that thought, that one peaceful thought, that he slept, and for the first time since the war, his mind was free of nightmares.


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ones a bit short. Sorry.

Her name was Rose. 

It had been stuttered, escaping _red_ lips in broken strands of sound. Voice rich, _soft_ like her namesake, and the scent of a _sweet_ perfume dragged its way across his senses. It was intoxicating, and it took all he had to tell her to run, to run for her life- to get away from the building, the danger. 

_Away from him._

It had been a total coincidence when he had found her again, watched as her brown eyes met his and her lips, those _rosy_ lips parted just so in surprise, before closing in suspicion. 

There was no coincidence when he asked her to come with him. 

There was luck when she declined. 

What was he thinking? He couldn’t have a companion. No matter how brave, no matter how ungodly stupid as to fight an alien and save one at the same time. No matter how her eyes sparkled like sunlight catching tree sap on a bright morning. No matter how the scent of flowers, of _roses_ leached off her and into him, into his head and into his veins- pumping through his hearts and crawling into every single cell in his body. No matter how his pulse had raced, seeing the sweat shine across her skin, how all he could think of was running, having her by his side with her skin slick with water vapour, the salt practically crystallising on his tongue for all he could taste it. No. It was luck when she declined his offer. 

_Lucky for her._

But he was never one for luck. It was need, pure selfish _want_ when he returned, a desperate plea leaving his lips. He never asked twice. He could feel his past regenerations shuddering throughout the cosmos. Him, _begging_ a human to travel with him. Well. It would be the least horrifying thing for them to be disturbed about, were it possible for them to know. After all. His hands were stained. The kind of spot that never washed out, the kind that haunted him, not dissimilar to that of Lady Macbeth. Guilt crawling its way through his mind when he could fight no longer. His hands were stained, but they were steady. And it was this steadiness he carried, clutched close to his chest as he opened the TARDIS door wide, as he almost leant in to the vibrant warmth of Rose as she ran past, ran to him. Ran into his home. And if he had any say about it, _her_ home.   
This was wrong. He knew it. Could feel it as he stared into the lost look on the boy’s face. The boy she had just left, standing on the pavement. Felt it still as he closed the TARDIS door, as though the boy’s - Mickey, the back of his mind supplied. Mickey was what she had called him- gaze could reach him still. He was a monster. Old and far too disturbed, too ruined to be allowing this girl, this young innocent girl into his life. He had killed people. Innocent people. People like her. 

_And he had liked it. He had liked the feel of their bones beneath his hands, the desperate look in their eyes, the smell of fear and adrenaline permeating through their skin, into his. Had liked the way their pulse went from racing to nothing against his own, had liked the way their breath left in a final gas-_

“Doctor?” 

The words are quiet- voice dry and he can _hear_ the way she wets her lips, every nerve screaming of apprehension and it’s all he can do to not cry out because he barely knows her but he can already tell if she leaves now he won’t be able to handle it and if he can’t handle it he doesn’t know- _but yes he does_ \- what he’d do and-  
“Doctor.” 

Somewhere in his mind, he can hear the concern, understand its meaning. She’s not worried about him, she’s worried _for_ him. He can feel the burn in his lungs, telling him that whilst he doesn’t have to, his respiratory bypass system would last him a while, he should breathe. He should let the air flow throw his lungs and stream back out but he can’t. The sheer thought of her leaving claws at his mind and yes, he gets it, understands this is bad. He’s only known her for mere hours but the same force that drove him to return, to ask twice, is pushing on his mind telling him that if he screws this up she’ll leave-he won’t smell that sweet scent anymore, won’t see her amber eyes and hear her voice anymore and then where will he be-  
“Doctor!”  
A touch on his shoulder, and his lungs fill with air.   
His pulse slows.   
His eyes open- when had he closed them? - and he can see her face, swimming in its clarity before him, alight with concern. He can feel a slight stinging in his palms, and its then that he realises his hands had been clenched, nails digging into soft flesh. Now he knows it’s there, he can smell the blood, the bitter smell of iron filtering through his nose. His breathing is fast, but even, and he can feel it gradually getting slower, his body calming down. Her skin burns over his jacket, through his other layers, and it’s almost as though her hand’s imprinting itself into his shoulder.  
Her breathe flutters over his face, hot and wet and so _human_ that it almost hurtles him into another fit. Of what emotion he couldn’t have said. All he knows is that it’s too much, it’s all too much.   
It feels strange, to hear that name echo from her lips.   
_Doctor._   
He hadn’t acted like one in a very long time.   
He hadn’t acted like _him_ in a very long time.   
It was said that war changed you. And what had it done to him? Made him a killer. A killer in war and a killer out of it. A murderer was a far cry from the doctor he had been.   
_And yet…_  
And yet this girl. This human rose, so pink and yellow and _sweet._ She called him Doctor. She had held his hand, so warm and soft in his. She had saved him, unknowingly saved the planet in the process.   
_She thinks you’re a good man._   
His hand reaches up, finding itself placed on her own, and if he thought the feeling of her hand through his clothing burned, it’s nothing compared to the pure heat he feels against his own skin. His eyes lock with hers, and he can see the way her mascara clumps her eyelashes together. Can see how the heavy pencil in her eyebrows defines their shape against her pale complexion. But most of all he sees the trust in those amber depths. The concern radiating from her whole being as she curls herself around him. And he knows.   
He’s going to do everything in his power to keep her thinking that he is.   
He’s going to be the Doctor.   
_For her._   
~


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose and the Doctor's first adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I wanted this to be longer, but I'm leaving for the airport in a few hours and I won't be back for three weeks so I wanted to upload what I had.

The view was radiant- the beginning of an end. A star, reaching the end of its life. No more hydrogen to convert to other elements, Helium, in the case of Earth’s sun. A great expansion, in search of fuel, a vague, desperate attempt to cling on to life just a little longer- destroying the lonely planet down there below them in the process. 

Every atom, every proton and electron and neutron in between, in this star, would be recycled. To form a nebula, which would in turn birth new stars. Or they would condense, forming dust and rock, which would gravitate together, and planets would form. Planets in which someday, there might be life. 

Knowing this, it was far too easy to look at the girl beside him and believe she was made of star dust. 

This girl, with her amber eyes and fair skin and yellow hair- and all the colours in between, was most definitely a star. A star, he felt had to be moving further away from him, for all that her light reached him. It was too much- surely, like the planet below- she would expand, consume him in her path and he would burn.   
He knew burning. Had felt liquid fire course through his veins and force change upon his body. Force his very molecular structure to disintegrate and reform in a coded mess of DNA, alleles fighting for dominance. Time Lord DNA was very complex after all, being able to support the regeneration process. 

He had felt burning. But never like this. 

She would laugh, and he would feel the heat in his bones. 

A word escaping her lips meant a breath entering his, lungs needy for the air surrounding them. Often, he could _taste_ her. All those chemicals reacting and acting upon others in her body, keeping her alive. 

A touch, her hand in his, her head against his shoulder, her arms around his back, and he was on _fire._

He had brought her to the end of her world. 

She had brought him to the end of _him_ , for surely he would be unable to function should she leave. 

She stood, the fiery sun her backdrop, and he was in awe. Passably, he could claim it was what she was seeing, what she thought he was seeing, that had him speechless. 

_You’re getting too attached._

Yes. Yes he was. But he couldn’t seem to bring himself to care. Instead he found himself drawn to her, like a moth to flame. It was elemental, a gravitational pull to be near her, an electron attached to a proton- stabilising them both. 

_Or maybe just you._

He had never felt this before. Sure, he had cared for all his companions, felt their presence like a warmth in his hearts during their time together, mourned their departure. But nothing like this. This pure _heat_ coursing through his soul that told him that if it left he would be far, far too cold to function again. 

He couldn’t lose her. 

He wouldn’t lose her. 

~ 

He had almost lost her. 

She had been trapped, stuck in a tiny room with an expanding sun and he couldn’t get to her- couldn’t shield her from those harmful UV rays. Solar light was more than warmth. It was radiation, it was particles so toxic to life that logically the simple lack of shielding in _some_ of the room should have been enough to kill her, light or no light. 

But she was alive. 

Because of him. 

_She was in danger in the first place because of you._

It had been a simple task really, in any other circumstance. A simple instruction delivered to the main processor completely bypassing the translation unit. An order to raise the shield was easy, despite the interference present. What made it difficult was her. Her shouting, her panic- 

_Her life._

He had panicked, making his motions slow despite the adrenaline burning through his systems. She had barely survived. He had never been so relieved. He had taken lives before, felt its essence leave their bodies in frightful clarity. He had enjoyed the feel of them under his hands, their nails piercing his skin. It made him feel alive. Made him feel stable.   
He reasoned, that the lives he saved outweighed the lives he didn’t. He didn’t like it, he didn’t stop though. In some ways, he could forgive himself. 

If he killed her he would _never_ forgive himself.   
~  
He felt no remorse killing Cassandra. 

Everything has a time to die, and hers was long overdue. Like the Earth that had been behind them, like the sun that still was- everything had its end, and everything died. He simply did what natural processes had failed to do. 

He did, however feel remorse for upsetting Rose, as she had made clear that night. 

“You killed her.” It was soft, raw. She looked at him warily, her body language closed and tense. 

"I did.” He was the opposite. Stern, but open. He would not make her scared of him, if he could avoid it. 

“Why? You could’ve helped her.”

“Everything dies Rose.” 

“Even you?” It was pointed, but curious. He rationalised that to her, he was an alien. 

“Especially me.” 

Rose looked at him, eyes on his. Slowly, her hand reached out and grasped his own, fingers entwining through his. He let out a breath. 

“Thank you, for saving me today.”

_Oh Rose._

“Thank _you._ ” 

“For what?” She wet her lips, face leaning forward ever so slightly. Her thumb traced circles on the back of his hand, what she could reach anyway. 

“For doing the same thing.” 

Her eyes widened, and she leaned back slightly. He mused, that to her, she had done nothing. 

Never before had doing nothing been so powerful. 

She was silent, staring at him with such thoughtfulness that he almost had the urge to shy away and hide himself from view, lest she discover just how much of a monster he was. 

_She’ll figure it out eventually._

But not yet, he told himself- the words holding him together at his torn seams. 

For now, he was content to keep the silence and stare at their joined hands, letting the peace of her presence wash over him. 

A peace he sat in long after she went to bed.   
~  
The next day relative to the last, came far too quickly for his fragile mind. He was cramped under the console, muttering under his breath as a particularly difficult bolt refused to come undone. Rose had gone to bed several hours ago, leaving him alone to his thoughts. Needless to say, the destruction around him was proof that they were not good ones. It had started. He’d felt the tightening in his chest, the crawling of his skin. Felt the way his hands moved with tiny tremors. Felt the way his blood coursed through his veins, far too fast to be healthy. 

Flashes of fire, of intense burning and heat. Images of friends, of family. Of him. And worst of all. He felt it. Felt the way his body tensed. How his mind _itched._

_You want to kill again._

He had felt the adrenaline leaving his body after the day’s events. Felt how his hormone levels dipped and fell back to normal, his body calming. 

His mind _craving._

Since then, he’d responded with vain attempts at console repair. However, there had been nothing broken. Soon enough there was. 

_There always is, with you involved._

He could only imagine what Rose would think, emerging from her room in peace, to witness the destruction that lay around him. Soon, she would catch on. But he couldn’t let her. 

He had to get out. 

Had to leave, get some of this tension out of his system before she came back because who knew what he would do to her- Rose, with her _rosy_ lips, and _silky_ skin and—

No. He wouldn’t. 

He _couldn’t._

Decision made, he dragged himself from the console, detangling his limbs from the mess of wires and broken metal around him. He had to leave. 

Setting the coordinates to a system in Genesis 8, he raced to the door- wrenching it open in one swift movement and-

_Air._

He felt it in his lungs- the way they dilated to consume more air, more precious oxygen. 

He was free, the hustle and bustle of a crowded city filling him with an immense euphoria. 

His eyes scanned the area, taking in the crowd, the way they moved as one. A hive mind of species going about their daily life. 

He paused, feeling the way his muscles ached, the way his body was coiled and tense. His fingers twitched, and his gaze fell on an Edonian- a race known for its brutality. He watched as the Edonian broke away from the crowd, turning down an alley way. It would be so easy. 

He shouldn’t do this. 

_Don’t do this._

It sounded strangely like Rose, as though she was standing next to him, whispering words in his ear. 

_You don’t have to do this._

The thought of Rose, sleeping back in her room, her soft face relaxed in peace- made him tense. If he didn’t do this now, how could he keep her safe from him? 

He had to do it.


End file.
